Like birds in the air
The hands of my mother
are like birds in the air
Stories of cooking
between her wounded wings
of hunger
The hands of my mother
know what happens
in the mornings
When she kneads life
mud ovens
bread of hope.
The hands of my mother
come to the yard since early
Everything becomes a party
when they fly
with another birds
With the birds
that love life
and build it with the work
The wood burns, flour and mud
The daily things
become magic.
The hands of my mother
represent me an open sky
and a memory longing for
warm mops in the winters
The hands of my mother
noble, sincere, clean of all
How would be the hands
of he who moves them
thanks to hatred?